Gwen followed his pointed stare, looking down at her body, clad in the silkiest, softest white nightgown she possessed. Then she swallowed. Hard. Seeing herself as he must be seeing her.
The deeply slashed neckline glittered with tiny pearl-like beads that picked up and reflected the meager light in the room. The fabric clung across her breasts, which were pushed high, plumped up and spilling over because of the tight bodice.
She could have claimed it was the cold autumn night that made her nipples pucker so tightly against the gown.
She could also have claimed to be engaged to Ben Affleck and having an affair with Brad Pitt. That didn’t make it true.
Though she thought of how foolish she’d been not to grab her robe, a deep-rooted part of Gwen liked the admiration in his eyes. Her track record with romance was damned pathetic. The blow to her confidence brought on by her broken engagement had killed her instinct to even try to attract the opposite sex.
How funny. She now remembered what she’d once so very much liked about attracting the opposite sex. That look in a man’s eye. The one that promised more than any words could. And hinted he could back up his unspoken promise anytime, anywhere.
Maybe even here and now.
“I didn’t remember to bring my robe,” she finally said, wondering how a perfect stranger could bring out the woman she’d thought was lost forever. “I should get it.”
“Don’t go to any trouble on my account.” The intensity in his voice made the words less playful than he may have intended.
Watching his jaw clench, she sucked in a quick gulp of heady night air. How amazing that a man’s stare could make her heart trip over itself as it beat restlessly within her chest. But not with fear. This was pure, one hundred percent excitement.
Gwen smoothed her hand against her nightie, nervously fingering the material. Its slickness slid between her fingers. The gown fit tightly to her hips, then fell in undulating waves to the floor. Two slits made the fabric gap from ankle to thigh. With every shift, another bit of skin would be revealed. Tempting. Tantalizing. Heightening the anticipation as any self-respecting wedding night negligee should.
Fate. Fate or one of the ghosts in this house had made the pipe in her room break right over most of her clothes, damaging all her nightgowns except this one…the one she was supposed to have worn on her honeymoon. The one she’d kept after she’d canceled the wedding, sold her dress, hocked her ring and delivered the cake to a homeless shelter.
Because, after finding her bastard of an ex giving more than dictation to his secretary a few days before their wedding, she’d needed one sultry, seductive, feminine thing, to remind her she was a desirable woman. His cheating had made her doubt herself. The nightie gave her confidence, though no one had ever seen her in it. Until now. And judging by the raw want in his eyes, this stranger definitely thought she was a desirable woman.
How amazing. How exciting. How…enticing.
Still, she wasn’t stupid. This was risky business. She didn’t know who this man with the hungry eyes was.
He seemed to sense her sudden misgivings because he stepped to the side, turning slightly away. He was now far enough that she didn’t feel his warm breath on her skin. She shivered, wondering how she could miss the warmth of the stranger when by all rights she should be running like mad to her room.
“I really am sorry for frightening you.”
“It’s okay.” Her voice sounded weak, breathy and nervous. She cleared her throat, then realized she meant it. “It’s fine. I wasn’t afraid. Not really.”
She should have been, she knew that. She was alone in her nightgown, late at night, in a dark, quiet house, with a stranger. The normal reaction should have been fear. But for some reason his height didn’t intimidate her. His breadth didn’t, either, though his chest looked broad enough to tap-dance on. No doubt, this man, clad in skintight black fabric from his neck to his shoes, should have caused concern.
Maybe because she’d been burying the sensual part of herself for so long, Gwen had reacted with instant, unrelenting attraction. The kind that could turn stronger women than she into complete fools.
“What are you thinking?”
“That finding dark, handsome strangers in the kitchen late at night just doesn’t happen to women like me.”
He didn’t laugh, or even smile, at her frankness. “And I don’t often stumble across stunning blondes in nighties when I visit country inns. Or are you, perhaps, the ghost of this inn?”
“I’m entirely real.” Then she paused. It was, after all, Halloween. The whole town believed she lived in a haunted house. She’d grown accustomed to strange happenings that had given her more than one sleepless night in recent months. And there were her aunt’s spectral friends to consider. “Are you a ghost?”
This time, he did smile, his teeth glittering brilliantly white in the half darkness, making her heart trip again. Maybe her question hadn’t been so ridiculous. No man this seductive could just stumble across her path. Not with her luck when it came to men.
“Not a ghost. I’m very real.” He stepped closer again, until the tips of his shoes almost touched her toes. His pants brushed her gown; she could almost feel his leg against hers.
She didn’t move away, even as the word dangerous flashed through her mind.
“Want me to prove it?”
Before she could answer—and Gwen couldn’t say what her answer would have been—she felt the man grasp her fingers. He lifted them until she was almost touching his face. Then he pressed her fingers against his cheek. “Aren’t ghosts cold?”
She nodded weakly, gauging the rough warmth of his skin, wondering if he’d read her mind when she’d thought earlier about how sexy his five o’clock shadow looked. “You’re not cold.”
Not cold. Hot. Magnetic. Seductive. Her fingertips scraped across the roughness of his cheek in a helpless, subtle caress.
“And spirits don’t breathe, do they?”
Without warning, he moved her hand until her fingers brushed his lips. God, those lips. The other part of his face she’d found so arousing. Gwen’s knees grew weak and shaky. She grabbed the counter with her free hand, then focused on the soft breath touching her fingertips as he slowly exhaled.
“Ghosts are also transparent,” he continued, his voice so quiet, she almost had to strain to hear him. “I would say I’m pretty solid.”
She knew what he meant. But he didn’t come closer to let her feel just how solid he was. He was letting her decide. So she did. Not making a conscious decision to do so, she moved her feet forward, until her legs nearly cupped one of his.
Definitely solid. Hard. Thick and hot between her thighs. She wobbled on her bare feet and let out a long, shuddery sigh.
Oh, he was much more dangerous than any ghost. And here she was, reacting like every stupid bimbo in every scary movie ever made. Not running for the door when the killer’s clanging around in the attic, but heading up the stairs toward the danger instead.
She scooted her feet apart, rubbing her calf against his pants…taking another step closer to the danger in the attic.
“See? I’m not a ghost.” He turned her hand, staring at her wrist. Then, slowly, he drew it to his mouth and brushed his lips over the pulse point. She couldn’t say for sure, but she thought she felt the tiniest flick of his tongue on her skin. Or else she imagined it, because she wanted to have felt it.
She moaned. No, he was not a ghost. But oh, heavens, with his breath caressing